Standing at the cutting board in the kitchen, I sliced off the sides of the mango along the flat side of the seed as I’d been taught, and scored the flesh so it could be bent outward and easily eaten. I took one side to my husband who was on the couch, and sat on the edge of our dilapidated La-z-boy recliner to eat my portion.

I put out my right palm so Brett could drop his peel into it, and stood. As I crossed the threshhold into the kitchen, I told him, “A guy told me once that mango is the pussy of fruit.”

I returned to my knife and sliced off the remaining chunks of the mango for Brett, and kept the seed for myself. I returned to the living room, and watching Deadwood on HBO, we finished off the fruit.

Brett followed me into the kitchen to dispose of his peels and said, “Yes, it is the pussy of fruit.” And as an afterthought, he added, “But you can do things to a mango with your teeth you would never do to a pussy.”

I eyed him, scowling a little. “I never said it was a perfect analogy!”

He laughed.
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